Running to catch up here, being that time ran away with me for a while there, and I find my objective of one Paris iPhone pic per day a leeettel beeet behind schedule.

Reckon I'll get back on track just in time to go off for a few days and get behind on things again. Funny how time creeps up on us when we're looking the other way. Always envied kids, who have no idea what they're not regretting the way us oldies do. Or wishing. It's the same in the end.

Have you ever considered just how bizarre the concept of a memory actually is? The idea of it. Does it really exist, this present sensation of something we name a recollection of another time, place... and person?

To what extent do the things we've done in our lives 'exist' as such, and do they possess a more fundamental reality than the things to come, just because we've chosen to view life from the point of view of younger to older rather than the other way round. When we're dead and gone will it really matter or have any meaning what order such and such group of events took place? I'm not so sure.

And if someone leaves behind no friends or family to remember them, can we really, honestly say that they actually existed at all.

Just wondering. Old lady, young lady, or is it the other way round, side by side in the Paris metro. Hem heights wither, hen night delights slither up and down the temporal timeline we've chosen to measure our daily dilemmas by.

My flannel-clad knee seems awkward and incongruous between such womanly curves as I stab away at my round-cornered rectangular universe where a large part of me lives and don't tell me it doesn't. As much as anywhere else, I reckon. Your eyes are distinguishing between light and dark areas on a piece of plastic right now, remember; what makes us think we're in the process of interacting with another human being for an instant, I wonder.

To paraphrase my good friend Pink, "Is there anybody in there? Just click if you can feel me. Is there anyone at (the) home (page)?"